#62. On Meditation

*Such a lifelong seriousness, you know?
Taking life too seriously, taking myself too seriously, taking others too seriously, and giving all of us a trouble big time - hey, why did you show up late? why did I say that? why did you break my heart when I loved you such much? I'm so so so sorry... (and keeps going)     not to mention the moral hangovers, self-consciousnesses, shame of going to the library with my wonderful pajama-like blue pants.

*There's also this thing of all-that-you're-supposed-to-do at a certain moment of Time.
So it felt so painful back then this silly thing that I was the last one to kiss a boy at school when I was 13, and the last one to have my period    and at 29 I got so afraid of turning 30, because when I'm 30, well, I have to be all wise and I'm so fucking faraway from wise with these insecurities and fears, including this big one for a woman at that age: that at the moment I had no such supposedly-natural feeling of becoming a mother. [and the clock felt to be always ticking]

*Not only time but also Space.
When everybody settles, and friends become Families with apartments, or even when I listen to those who have their favorite city in the world    I watch from the inside my inability to find a place in all 5 continents where I would like to stay for more than 2 years     or, to go a little further: not able to even decide if I prefer a house or an apartment, if I am urban or if I like the countryside
Or this uncomfortable one of not feeling particularly Brazilian although not having any other identity to replace it: Exiled from nowhere with no asylum country.

*And there's also the Being a Proper Good Person.
So I read Dostoievski when I was 15, got good grades in hateful biology and chemistry, studied Law at a very good university, refrained from dancing Macarena in public, wore dreadful high heels, exercised regularly and so on (thanks God I've been a smoker for 20 years now).

* * *
Then it came this one day when I realized that it was maybe too much, huh?
Following others' advices, I tried to imagine I was my best friend and that I was hugging myself and so on. But some things are too deep-rooted to be taken care of this way.

And it was then, sitting in the cushion, that I understood that there was no way to fix myself because there was none to be fixed but the stories I had created about this me.
So I dropped everything and quickly came to this understanding:

:Life's a balloon ride


* * *

#61.Os Diários da Índia: Om Namah Shivay/The India Diaries: Om Namah Shivay

[English version below]

É fim da manhã e eu estou numa praia na beira do Ganges. Não tem ninguém: hoje somos só eu e o sadhu que seca um pedaço de pano no dia sem sol.  Lento, assim, ou ainda mais precisamente: para além do tempo     é esta praia vazia, o rio hoje que passa devagar, o nublado que me resiste calor, sombra e vontade de tomar o banho sagrado no último dia de Rishikesh.

E porque não existe mais nada pra fazer, então eu sento em Silêncio. E me vejo perguntando se eu existo quando não tem ninguém pra escutar o que eu digo         que nem agora.    Ou o que é que existe quando não tem ninguém para escutar. Ou se na verdade alguma vez houve alguma coisa que eu falei que realmente precisou ser dita.

Entre dormindo e acordada, aqui neste lugar vazio de algum jeito que não é na cabeça eu entendo que todas as palavras são inúteis. Que viver de palavras é do reino do Absurdo.        :O Essencial é do reino do indizível

E eu vejo como uma bola de futebol o nonsense dispensável que é o Pão Nosso de Cada Dia: os gestos, as tentativas, os erros e os acertos; todos os momentos de planejar, todos os planos e sonhos, a memória das pessoas que eu amo, meus pais sentados no banco do quintal lá em Curitiba, meu irmão acordando com a cara amassada. A solidão da Suíça, os amigos que sempre estão lá longe, minha viagem de bicicleta, o futuro pós-doutorado, a casa que eu já deveria ter comprado, o companheiro que eu deveria ter encontrado, o filho que eu já poderia ter tido. Tudo que eu deixei, tudo que eu ainda não consegui deixar, tudo que eu tenho medo de perder. A morte – a minha e a dos que eu amo, e mesmo meu desejo de Verdade.

Tudo aquilo que É Evidente desaparece no momento em que não existe nada, em que não há ninguém para me testemunhar a não ser eu mesma, sem disfarces       sem sol        num lugar desconhecido.  Tudo que sobra é Nada, e esse nada é o que eu sou.

Tão pura, ela me vem assim: para além do gostar ou não gostar, a Índia é uma forma de morte.

***

[English version]

Late morning and I'm sitting by myself facing the Ganga. Quiet around: today it's me and the sadhu who dries his piece of cloth under the cloudy sky.  Slowly or even better     :timeless        this place is empty, the river flows lazy today and the gray sky asks me not to run for the supposedly holy bath in my last day in Rishikesh.

And because there's nothing else to do       then I do sit in Silence.  I'm soon asking myself if indeed I do exist when there's none to listen to what I say, like now        Or      What is it that exist when there's none to listen to what I say         Or        Is there actually something worth saying beyond Silence itself?

Half awake-half asleep        here in this empty place I understand somehow that every and each word is useless.  Living from words is to dive into the Absurd         :the Essential knows no word.

Just as if it were a soccer ball       then I watch the nonsense that I am used to play with everyday: my gestures and words, trials, mistakes, failures and successes; every planned and planning moment, every future plan, the memory of those ones who I love, my parents sitting in the backyard side by side under the orange tree and my beautiful brother waking up late in a Sunday. The Swiss solitude, my friends scattered all over the world, my bike tour, my future after the PhD, the house I should have bought at this point, the man I should have met at this point, the child I should already have had at this point.  Everything that I have left behind, that which I could not yet abandon, all I'm afraid of losing. Death - mine and my beloved ones'. My clumsy Truth-seeking journey.

And all of this which has always been so evident disappears in this moment when there's nothing and none to watch but a Bare Me       no need to pretend        in this me alone   by the river    no sun    in Rishikesh.  NOTHING is that which is left; that's only that which I am       no lies allowed here

So pure, she gives me its vertiginous gift: beyond loving it or not, India is a sort of death.